View allAll Photos Tagged EXPLOREMORE
A serene day on the rugged coast of Crimea, where warm light kissed the cliffs and the sea stretched into infinity. It was one of those magical moments when everything aligns — the water, the sky, the silence.
Moremi Game Reserve | Botsuana
This little calf played quite some time, till it realised that two strange big animals with 4 whells stood nearby and then "fled" into safety and watched as carefully from underneath his mother.
"Thinking about Portreath Friday." The message was accompanied by a screenshot of a weather forecast that promised some bracing conditions for anyone who was prepared to get wet and risk a certain amount of seawater coming into contact with their camera if they didn't keep their wits about them. It took me about half a second to consider my options before replying that I would be there.
The previous conversation on Whatsapp with my daughter Nicky had centred on the relative merits of varying brands of vegetarian chorizo style sausages, so this was a bit of a departure. Probably a good thing because seascape photography is surely a broader subject with a more enduring conversation potential than meat substitute products.
I hadn't been to Portreath recently, even though it's so close to home, passing the summer crowds and heading along the coast in favour of the wilder and more open Gwithian and the increased opportunities for solitude that it brings. But when there's weather like this, Portreath Monkey Hut at high tide becomes a magnet to me. As the nights close in it's also one of only two places I can really get to after work now. Another week or two and I'll be limited to weekends unless I want to try some more astro-photography on a freezing cold night.
Surprisingly, and to our relief in this era of social distancing we had the place to ourselves, hiding behind the big wall that protects us from the elements here, occasionally popping up like meerkats to scan the horizon and hastily steal a shot from the driving elements that were coming straight at us. At one point a man stood on the quay below us, and before we could say anything a huge roller dumped its contents all over him, chasing him back along the yards to the relative safety of the inner harbour area. Every so often a substantial plume of spray and foam would rise into the air, giving us a split second to turn our backs and guard our precious camera equipment as it landed all over us. At least we were in a safe place, despite what misgivings the scene might be offering you.
And so for a while we watched the light fade as Storm Alex, the first of the season and named by our friends from across the Channel in France, battered the coast. As ever I couldn't resist trying a slightly longer exposure despite the rain and seaspray coming straight at us on the back of a fierce wind. With the trusty shower cap resting on top of the camera I dialled in my settings and tried my best to compose the image. Choosing the moment to expose the camera to the world and take a shot before quickly replacing the shower cap was one of pure chance, although I did manage to grab a small collection of images that I could barely see on my screen. Processing the RAW files also proved difficult and this is one of many versions of the same shot that I'm still struggling with.
But what I love is the drama, with the ever photographed monkey hut almost disappearing into the white water around it. I can't think of a better way to spend a Friday evening than trying to capture an image of the elemental fury around me. This is the Cornwall I love. Wild, brooding and ever changing in its moods where every outing brings challenges and my waterproofs are always in the car. The winter months are often seemingly endless, but if they bring out a passion you can completely lose yourself in, then what's not to love about them?
In the blue immensity of the Atlantic Ocean, where the land bids farewell to the continent and embraces the sea, hides an unspoilt paradise - Praia da Alagoa, on the island of Flores, in the Azores, where time slows down and nature reveals itself in all its purity: the vibrant green of the vegetation, the volcanic black of the rocks and the deep blue of the sea intertwine in a unique harmony. A refuge where the wind whispers ancient stories and the sea sings songs of eternity.
What a lucky day... just minutes after we left from a pride of lions that hunted down an elephant that night, I saw this young leopard drinking at the Khwai River | Botswana
This is the traditional Remodelado tram that rattle and screech through the streets of Lisbon. Travelling on one of these iconic trams is a must when visiting this beautiful city
"One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs
And the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls"--Saeb-e-Tabrizi
The title of Khaled Hosseini's book A Thousand Splendid Suns is based on this poem by the 17th century Persia poet Tabrizi...
Nighttime photo of Captain Nalle, part of Thomas Dambo’s Giant Trolls, glowing under a stunning starry sky in Nordhavn, Copenhagen. This magical long-exposure shot captures the brilliance of the stars as their light etches timeless beauty into the scene
Dave had already disappeared, seemingly swallowed by the forest and its secrets. Maybe he just wanted to escape the endless drizzle, but something told us otherwise. In the woods, Dave can see things that escape me entirely. We knew it would be at least an hour until we saw him again. Dave was entering Dave World, a place where everything makes sense and all is calm. He’d be just fine.
By his own admission, Lee wasn’t feeling the love. He couldn’t see the forest sprites emerging from the mist. “Everything is just a tangled mess!” he complained as he watched Carl and I creeping around the mossy boulders at the edges of this magical dark green world. Lee likes minimal, and this was anything but. Maybe he’d find a lone tree for his Leica somewhere outside the woodland. But with the filthy elements in such a persistent mood, his state of the art camera stayed in the bag.
On the walk from the car park, I mostly chatted with Carl. Carl and I had been “friends” on another platform for a couple of years by now, and although he only lives just over the border in west Devon, this was the first time we’d met. We had much to talk about, including his autumn workshop visit to Iceland, which had been interesting to say the least. We shared future plans, anecdotes on locations and even more importantly, he told us that the Fox Tor Cafe in Princetown had excellent reviews. That was lunch sorted then.
While Carl had been here a handful of times, this was just my second visit. The first time had been six years earlier, when I’d placed reasonably well in the over fifties category in a nearby 10k trail race that took us from the high ground at Castle Drogo down into the depths of Fingle Woods alongside the River Teign, another location I’ve long wanted to photograph but still not made it to. On that day my partner in crime was Emma, an old friend of many years whose race plan was always the complete opposite of mine. Whereas she’d charge off from the starting line like a bull at a gate, I’d struggle to find an early rhythm and be wheezing away like a broken accordion. Towards the end I’d be settled in, breathing evenly and feeling strong, by which time she’d be hyperventilating noisily and demanding more Haribo. We stuck together throughout the course, each taking turns to swear and curse at the other for dragging them out on a soaking March morning - all because the finishers’ medals looked so delightfully blingy. “Give ‘em a shiny thing for getting over the finish line and they’ll come in numbers,” said the organisers to themselves. The language from my companion in that last steep uphill mile was especially fruity that day.
After more than six miles of purgatory in running shoes, Emma had gone to spend the afternoon with her in-laws who lived nearby. I’d brought my camera gear with intentions to ignore the fast road and roll back across the moor. The wood had been one of the two places I planned to visit. “Now let’s see - trail running shoes, check. Compression socks, check. Waterproof winter trousers, check. Welly boots, double check.” It seemed I had everything I needed - except for the conditions. That day I carefully focus stacked a strangely symmetrical frame among the carnage, but in retrospect I’m not sure it was worth the bother. To make this place ping, you really need a bit of mist. Or a lot more skill in Photoshop than I possessed.
Today, six years later things were pinging quite nicely. I mean you can always have more fog of course, but the meteorological lottery was rewarding us well for our efforts. And we’d started very early, which you probably know isn’t my thing at all. In fact, when I later told one of you that I’d been up before 6am in preparation for this outing, he demanded to know who’d hacked into my Whatsapp and threatened to call the authorities. But yes, we’d arrived here at eight, met a few moments later by Carl, and slooshed our way through the mud to the woods, enveloped in a grungy grey curtain, just as we’d hoped for.
It might take a while to start to see things, but when you do, it’s really quite rewarding. Nick, who joined us a little later, has been here countless times, yet he told us he still often finds new shapes emerging from the mist. And now, as I stole away from the others and headed a few yards north, I found the lollipop stick, poking through a mossy “V” shaped frame. No faffing around with focus stacks this time, just a straightforward thumbprint on the main attraction and let everything else recede into a blur. There’s so much waiting here to be discovered.
Dave had that quiet smugness about him which always means he’s found a masterpiece. Carl looked happy enough too. Lee was chewing a Snickers bar. I think the Leica had come out briefly, but he was really saving it for the lone hawthorns we’d find elsewhere later. For three of us at least, the first full day had started well, but it was time to move on and find the next location.
I think we're all pretty much agreed that 2020 isn't going to be a year that too many people look back upon fondly. No doubt some of us have experienced the odd landmark moment that will make the year more memorable for them personally, but for most people, it's been a stinker. For some it's been a lot worse than that.
In our own little world of insignificant first world problems, our plans to spend a fortnight in South Western Spain had been long since shelved when we decided that a few days in the remote Somerset Levels would make a pleasing change of scene. During the first half of last week, the weather in the UK had been unusually hot, a sure sign that thunderstorms were on the horizon. Earlier in the day we'd had lunch at a very exclusive looking nearby hotel before hiking up onto the cooler climes of the Quantock Hills to gaze down over the Bristol Channel beyond the twin islets of Steep Holm and Flat Holm towards the haze of a not too distant South Wales.
After agreeing that Steep Holm would offer better natural protection (the clue is in the name) in the event of an apocalypse where we were among the few survivors we strolled happily back down the slope to the car and headed for the coast at nearby Kilve. We've reached the age where we have started to take camping chairs along with us on our outings, and so we sat by the low cliffs above the beach and watched the sun change colour from yellow to orange and then red as it sunk into the sea near the coast of Exmoor. Needless to say I took photos. We agreed it had been a good day; in fact the most enjoyable day of the year we decided after a little more thought on the subject. Not that it's had much competition of course, but there you go.
I'm never one for leaving immediately after sunset - it's often the best time to take photos. Pink cumulus had formed above us in a manner that both threatened and excited at the same time, and before long, the occasional flash of lightning flickered menacingly behind them. Surely rain was on the way? We watched and waited, spellbound by the unfolding drama as the light gradually faded and the lightning began to spread westwards along the Welsh coast on the opposite side of the estuary. It was getting late, but still we stayed, riveted by the show and expecting to get soaked by the urgent rainfall that never arrived. At some point it occurred to my slow witted brain that putting the camera on the tripod and pointing it across the Severn Estuary might be an idea. I'd always had an idea as to how it might be possible to photograph lightning, but the opportunity had never arisen; at least not until now it hadn't. With a series of 25 to 30 second exposures I hoped that what was mostly sheet lightning might produce the odd fork, which it eventually did - close to the resort town of Barry, which for those of you who are British will know is the home of a much loved sitcom of recent years - hence the title. I was very happy. An already excellent day, completed by watching a thunderstorm from a safe, dry location in the comfort of a cheap folding chair. What's not to love about that?
Part of my Surfcoast /Great Ocean Road trip. Landed in Torquay and the weather had been ordinary for a couple of days, luckily this particular morning the weather was kind and gave me a chance to take a few shots.
An aerial view of the mesmerizing sand dunes of Namibia, sculpted by the relentless winds over centuries. The golden hues of the sun bring life to the desert, highlighting its soft curves and intricate textures. A landscape both serene and untamed, where nature paints its masterpiece with light and shadow.
Some of you are very kind, reading the lengthy diversions I accompany my images with, much of it totally irrelevant to the shot itself. I'm not really sure I can drag another story out of Saturday evening to be honest. But you know I'm ready to give it a go. As I walked at an almost Olympian pace to the spot I'd planned to spend the last hours of daylight on, I watched the light spreading over St Ives on the other side of the bay, hanging dreamily over the distant town and illuminating it in a haze of yellow light. I'd tried a rarely used shortcut to get here, which proved a mistake and cost me the minutes that made me know I was going to miss the moment. Why on earth I have these occasional aberrations of the mental satnav I really can't explain - without exception they always fail. As I set up my tripod the sun appeared from behind the clouds which until that moment had brought a lovely diffused sky over to the west and I cursed myself for missing the moment.
I moved my tripod to a spot further along the cliff, exchanging a few words with a chap who'd come to stand on the clifftop and watch the sky change. "Looking promising!" he suggested as he watched me straighten my tripod, possibly looking a bit nonplussed as this grumpy old man complained he'd missed the light he'd been watching as he strode the mile or so along the path from the car park.
Of course I was wrong to grumble. I should have known that a healthy mixture of rain and sun would bring an evening sky like this. I zoomed in on the lighthouse alone and ignored the setting sun, which would have only resulted in a whole heap of lens flare on the left hand side of the image. After all I'm not sure that a collection of red and green blotches is what photographers mean when they refer to the concept of balance in an image. I looked at the 3 inch screen before me and smiled.
And so for a few minutes the sun lit the side of Godrevy lighthouse as fiercely as I've ever seen it. As my unknowing guru Mr Nigel Danson so often likes to say, "It doesn't get any better than this."
A few of you have been kind enough to tell me you were looking forward to the next instalment of my Comet Neowise adventures at Wheal Coates. I hope the sequel doesn't disappoint you. To everyone else, apologies for dragging you through already overgrown ground a second time. If you're wondering what I'm on about, my previous post entitled "Nocturnal Shenanigans at Wheal Coates and Beyond" will hopefully provide the intelligence you're looking for. Or very possibly not.
The early hours of Monday morning had brought an exciting and diverse collection of experiences, not all of them happy ones and I was looking forward to a slightly less incident packed return to the scene 24 hours later. Two consecutive clear nights were coinciding with two days of leave from work and the arrival of a comet in the night skies and it seemed almost careless to overlook the opportunity. Cornwall's leaden grey skies aren't usually this helpful. Remember that eclipse of the sun in 1999 where the world stood on its doorstep watching sky turn black in the middle of the day? I don't. Our day that summer involved staring in frustration at a completely overcast sky from our back garden. Enough said.
I'd arranged to meet with Hudson, the only man I know who has his own Wikipedia entry, earned from a lifetime of service to music. Ok it's a Wikipedia entry and not an MBE, but what he can't do with an electric violin wedged under his chin and a bow in his hand isn't worth doing. From Hudson I learned something new. Ever heard of the 500 rule? I hadn't either. Generally speaking I'm not keen on rules. I should stress I'm not inviting you to visit your local post office with a stocking on your head brandishing a lead pipe, but take the rule of thirds for example. Or the one which says you shouldn't put the horizon on the halfway line. I might use them sometimes, but they seem formulaic to me. I like breaking rules, but the 500 rule is undeniably a good one to follow if you're shooting the stars. Divide 500 by your focal length and that's the maximum number of seconds exposure time to avoid moving stars in your image. Who knew? Well Hudson did apparently. Amazingly, 8 seconds seems to be enough. I've just realised I was at 40mm. I could have had 4 more.
I'd brought a torch with me and announced loudly to the other 5 or 6 photographers who we knew were lurking nearby in the darkness that I was going to put it inside the engine house. I took the non-existent response as agreement and returned to my tripod to take the shot. Once we were both happy that we'd got a photograph or two we could work with, Hudson made ready to leave and I returned to collect the torch from the illuminated engine house, demanding royalties from the apparently happy collection of photographers who'd profited from the unexpected light show.
Arriving home sometime after midnight I stood beneath the neighbour's pine tree to say hello to the juvenile Tawny Owl I'd met the night before, only to be greeted by three of them sitting on a branch side by side, staring back at me. It's a memory I'm going to keep forever. I'm still smiling about it now.
I've just realised that the engine house is more or less on the third and so is the horizon. I'm feeling formulaic now......